Wisely, And Slow. They Stumble That Run

Death Lies On Her Like An Untimely Frost.

We See Which Way The Stream Of Time Doth Run.

The Devil Is A Gentleman.

Is This A Dagger Which I See Before Me, The Handle Toward My Hand? Come, Let Me Clutch Thee. I Have Thee Not, And Yet I See Thee Still. Art Thou Not, Fatal Vision, Sensible To Feeling As To Sight? Or Art Thou But A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?

For Trust Not Him That Hath Once Broken Faith